Anne O'Brien (7 page)

‘Do you like horses?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come here.’

John edged forward. ‘My mama says I must not be a nuisance or speak to you unless you speak to me first, sir.’

He laughed ‘Does she now? Then come and tell me—where were you born?’

‘In London, sir.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘I have been to New York in America. I have—’ John would have said more, but then stopped and frowned. ‘My mama says that I must not say.’

The child ran off before tempted into further indiscretions.

Which admission Lord Joshua thought was probably a tall story, embroidered by a child’s desire for adventure—yet there was something about him and his mother that was beginning to take his interest. He sensed secrets here. And the lad’s mother had clearly laid down instructions. What was Mrs Russell? Gently born, of course, presumably fallen on bad times. He wondered idly about the boy’s father. Perhaps he should ask Judith when they next met since she had employed the lady.

But of course it was not of very great importance. His mind turned to other matters.

Meanwhile, imperceptibly the Countess of Wexford began to make her presence felt more and more in the household, encroaching on the reins of power. It was not appreciated. Nor was her antipathy to Mrs Russell. Her intense dislike was patently evident, for what reason no one could guess, but which had no effect other than to unite the servants’ hall against the Countess in support of the housekeeper. What right did she have to look down her supercilious nose at Mrs Russell? If there should be any criticism levelled against the servants, it should be at the hands of Lord Joshua Faringdon. And he appeared to find no cause for complaint in the running of his household.

It had become customary for Sarah to present herself every morning in the breakfast parlour to discuss the menu and any particular needs for the day. It was unfortunate that within the second week the Countess of Wexford was completing her breakfast alone. Her tight smile on seeing Mrs Russell was not pleasant.

‘Ah. Mrs Russell. The menu for another tedious meal.’ She
held out an imperious hand for the list. ‘Tell me, Mrs Russell. Where were you last employed as housekeeper?’

‘I have never been in employment as housekeeper, my lady.’
I have never been employed at all!

‘Never? That would account for it, I suppose.’ The sneer was most marked as the lady perused the list. ‘So how can you presume to know the needs of a gentleman’s establishment such as this?’

‘I have had no complaints from Lord Faringdon, my lady.’ The perfect housekeeper kept her hands folded, her eyes lowered respectfully, her intense irritation veiled.

A glint of anger in the Countess’s eyes was hardly masked. ‘Who provided your references for this position?’

Well, there was only one way out of this difficulty. Sarah looked up. ‘I was employed for this post by the Countess of Painscastle.’ She refused to allow her direct gaze to fall. ‘Her ladyship found my abilities highly appropriate. Perhaps you could apply to her if you have some concerns, my lady.’

On which challenging statement, Lord Joshua entered, easily catching the tenor of the exchange. ‘There will be no need, Mrs Russell. I am more than satisfied with the arrangement.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sarah found it difficult to keep a stern countenance. She was human enough after all to be tempted into what could only be described as a little crow of triumph. But she suppressed the urge.

‘Of course not, Joshua.’ The Countess’s smile was deceptively sweet as she lifted her face towards his lordship. ‘I would imply no other. I merely wondered about Mrs Russell’s history.’ She patted a chair beside her, an obvious gesture that Lord Joshua had no difficulty in ignoring. ‘But another matter, my dear. I would wish to entertain. On Friday. Is there a problem if I arrange a little dinner party?’

‘No.’ Apart from some surprise at the request, he could think of no suitable reason why not. Other than a disinclination to spend an evening in the company of Olivia’s set.

‘Then I would like to hold a banquet for some particular friends. A French banquet—something a little out of the ordinary, to impress, you understand.’ The curl of her lips in Sarah’s direction was lethal in intent. She cast an eye over the light dinner menu for that evening again with delicate disdain. ‘Nothing of this nature, of course. So plain and uninteresting, do you not think? Only two main courses and a mean selection of side dishes apart from the dessert. Do you think that our kitchen might be capable of producing something suitably impressive, Mrs Russell?’ Sarah’s earlier challenge was thus returned in good measure.

‘Of course, my lady. A French banquet.’
I will do it if it kills me in the process.
But her heart sank at the prospect.

‘I really do think that we should employ a French chef, Joshua. So much more imaginative and exciting.’ The Countess sighed heavily and dramatically. ‘I suppose that I must leave it in your hands, Mrs Russell, on this occasion. I trust that I shall not be disappointed.’

‘We shall make every effort to ensure your satisfaction, my lady.’

Sarah took herself back to the kitchen, seething in anger.

‘What on earth is the matter, my dear?’ Mrs Beddows replaced a lid on a steaming pan and wiped her hands. ‘Is it That Woman again?’

‘Yes! Of course it is! Can we produce a French banquet for twelve guests on Friday night?’

‘A French banquet?’

‘The Countess wishes to test our mettle, Mrs Beddows. And if we are found wanting, she will insist on his lordship appointing a French chef!’

‘Does she indeed?’ Mrs Beddows bridled, her slight bosom swelling. ‘You tell me what we need and I will cook it. We will not have that hoity-toity madam or a foreigner interfering in my kitchen! What do I cook?’

‘I have no idea. I have never been to a French banquet.’ Sarah
thought, tapping her fingers against the heavy dresser with its array of blue porcelain. ‘But I know someone who has.’

Thus a series of notes passed rapidly between Sarah, Judith and her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, resulting in a formal manuscript arriving in Hanover Square, inscribed on thick cream vellum, being a copy of the menu for the French banquet served on the fifteenth of January in 1817 by the Prince Regent himself within the splendours of Brighton Pavilion.

Sarah, Millington and Mrs Beddows sat down to dissect it with varying degrees of horror and near-hysterical laughter at the splendour and scale of it.

‘We cannot do this, Mrs Russell. Indeed we cannot,’ Mrs Beddows finally decided, aghast, slapping her hands down against the table top. ‘Four soups, followed by four fish and then—well, I never!—thirty-six entrées, four of them with side dishes—and thirty-six desserts. Not to mention eight patisserie! And look at this. Turbot with lobster sauce, pike with oysters…eel with quenelles, truffles and cock’s combs.’

‘Roast larks in pastry lined with chicken livers!’ continued Millington. ‘And truffles mentioned six—no, seven times in all!’

‘Such extravagance!’ Mrs Beddows shook her head. ‘With the best will in the world, we cannot—’

‘No, no, Mrs Beddows. Of course we cannot.’ Sarah patted her hand consolingly. ‘But look. We can follow the same pattern of courses and simply select what we require. We can use some of the same dishes, but not the most extravagant. Alter some of the ingredients if necessary. And if we give them their French title…Millington can be sure to tell the Countess when she asks, as she most assuredly will. And since his lordship has placed no restrictions on our expenditure, then I suggest that money should be no object!’

‘Well… If you think so…’ A competitive spark had entered the cook’s eye.

‘I do. We have something to prove here. We will also, I suggest, serve it
à la française
, with the dishes arranged in the mid
dle of the table so that the guests help themselves and then pass them on to their fellow guests. Very fashionable in the greatest houses, I understand, and highly inconvenient for those who wish to sample a dish from the far end of the table, but if that is what her ladyship wishes…’ A wicked little smile crossed Sarah’s face as she contemplated the possibilities. ‘What’s more, I shall write out the menu,
à la française
, which will be highly uncomfortable for everyone if they do not recognise the dishes.
Haute cuisine
is what she demanded, so
haute cuisine
is what she will get. Whatever happens, we do not want one of the Countess of Wexford’s creatures lording it over this kitchen.’

‘Certainly not.’ The agreement was unanimous.

So they would do it. The servants’ hall declared war. The result was a positive
tour de force
. A French banquet in exemplary fashion, served by Millington and the footmen with style and panache. The guests were impressed beyond measure. Millington, when asked, wielded French phrases as expertly as Mrs Beddows wielded her boning knife. The
turbot à l’Anglaise
(turbot
without
lobster sauce) was mouthwatering, the
noix de veau à la jardinière
(veal with fresh vegetables) exquisite, the
côte de boeuf aux oignons glaces
(roast beef garnished with glazed onions) a perfect dish, the meat cooked to a tender delight. As for the
petits soufflés d’abricots
—one of a handful of memorable desserts—what could one say? Olivia Wexford’s guests could not but be impressed.

The results were beyond expectation. Lord Joshua sent his compliments and words of approval to his housekeeper and cook with suave and amused appreciation. Never had he been host to so fine a banquet in his own home. Not a vestige of a grin was allowed to warm his stern features as he recognised Mrs Russell’s throwing down of a culinary gauntlet. It had certainly added an element of tension and comment to an otherwise tedious evening. A
frisson
of sheer pleasure.

The servants, flushed with effort and triumph, ate well from the left-overs and probably would do so for days. It was a pleasure to toast the achievements of Mrs Russell and Mrs Beddows in the half-dozen bottles of claret spirited magically from the proceedings in the dining room by a cunning and slick-handed Millington.

The Countess of Wexford was furious, her pleasure in the whole evening spoiled beyond measure, but unable to express her true sentiments in the face of such overwhelming satisfaction, particularly from Lord Joshua. She had lost this battle and had to accept it with a gracious smile and flattering words. Her fingers curled around her fruit knife like a claw.

So the evening ended with food for thought. A delicious pun, Lord Joshua thought, much entertained at having seen the light of battle in the eyes of his intriguing housekeeper. And there was an undoubted gleam in his eyes, a gleam that could be interpreted as pure mischief, as the Countess took herself off to her bed at the first opportunity without a word and a disgruntled flounce. He had not been so amused for many weeks.

There was no further discussion of a French chef.

V
ery little communication occurred between the Faringdon households. Lady Beatrice kept silence and her distance, waiting for her son to visit her—which he deliberately chose not to do. Joshua visited his sister once at Painscastle House in Grosvenor Square on his arrival in England to exchange family news and other trivialities, but Judith had not returned the visit, partly because she had no wish to be forced into making polite and edgy conversation with the Countess of Wexford, or even to recognise that lady’s existence. More importantly because she did not wish to compromise Sarah’s situation in any way. Despite her shallow reputation and frivolous approach to life, Judith understood perfectly the reasons for Sarah’s reticence with regard to their friendship. The class division between Countess and housekeeper now yawned between them and Judith had no wish to embarrass her friend. But it concerned her that Sarah had refused all invitations to return to Painscastle House or even to accept a more casual arrangement to walk or ride in Hyde Park. Mrs Russell always had a good excuse, especially now that she had duties to Celestine as well as to the smooth running of Lord Faringdon’s establishment. Certainly, Judith might understand—but that did not necessarily mean that she would rest content with the estrangement.

In the end, when Sarah had once more cried off from a stroll in Grosvenor gardens, the Countess of Painscastle took matters into her own hands with high-handed Faringdon initiative. After discreet enquiries of Millington, she took herself to Joshua’s house at a time of day when she presumed that both her brother and his
chère amie
would be absent. She stood in the entrance hall to face the new and most supercilious butler, Millington.

‘Good morning, Millington. I would wish for a word with Lord Faringdon’s housekeeper—on a matter of business.’ Although why she should need to give a reason, she knew not.

‘Mrs Russell, my lady?’ Millington could hardly disguise his interest, which Judith promptly ignored.

‘Perhaps I could speak with her in the blue morning room. If you would be so good as to ask her to come?’

‘Very well, my lady. Would your ladyship require refreshment?’

‘No. All I need is a few moments of Mrs Russell’s valuable time.’

A short time later Sarah arrived with a carefully blank expression belied by a surprisingly fierce light in her blue eyes, followed by Millington, to come to a halt in the doorway of the elegant room where Judith was standing before the fireplace, removing her gloves. ‘You wished to see me, my lady.’

‘Indeed I did, Mrs Russell. There is no need for you to stay, Millington.’

He bowed and departed with ill-concealed disapproval and curiosity, in equal measure.

‘Sarah!’ Judith dropped all formality along with her gloves and parasol on the side table. Seeing the closed expression on Sarah’s face—much as she had expected, of course—she decided to approach the matter head on, immediately on the attack. She wasted no time. ‘Why have you not been to see me? And baby Giles? Should I suppose that you no longer wish to acknowledge me as a friend?’

‘Judith…’ Sarah drew in a breath against the obvious tactics. This would not be a comfortable meeting as she had known from the moment that Millington had delivered the message. If only she could have thought of some reason not to face Judith. But she could not, of course. A housekeeper could not claim the absolute necessity to clean out a fire-grate. ‘You know why I have not visited you. You should not have come to see me here. It will only give rise to unpleasant gossip.’

‘I told you it was a bad idea from the very beginning! I should never have allowed you to come here.’

Sarah could find nothing to say. Neither could she meet Judith’s gaze with its mixture of concern and hurt. But her own resentment died away. All she could do was answer the following catechism.

‘Are you well?’

‘Yes.’

‘And John?’

‘He is in good spirits—and enjoying living here, I think.’

‘How is Celestine?’

‘She seems to have settled in.’

‘Are you content?’

‘Yes.’ Sarah risked a glance. ‘I must thank you. I know you do not like it, but it was for the best.’

‘Sarah! Next you will be addressing me as
my lady
! In fact, you did just that when you came into the room!’ Judith almost hissed in annoyance. Except that sympathy for Sarah’s plight threatened to bring tears to her sharp and watchful eyes. She surveyed the folded hands, the deliberately quiet demeanour. The lack of any smile or sparkle in Sarah’s face. The plain gown and rigidly confined hair, the lace cap. All in all, the epitome of a competent housekeeper or governess! ‘You must not cut yourself off, you know. I am your friend.’

‘But it is not appropriate for me to be a close friend of the Countess of Painscastle. Indeed it is not, as you are well aware.’

And Judith was aware, but that did not make her retreat.
‘Nonsense. I shall inform Thea and insist that she come to see you and take you in hand if you continue to distance yourself in this manner!’

Which brought a smile to Sarah’s lips. Indeed, she laughed at her friend’s outrageous threat. ‘I thought you would already have done so.’ Which had the effect of spurring Judith into action. On impulse, oblivious to convention, she covered the expanse of opulent carpet between them to fold Sarah in a warm embrace and kiss her cheek.

‘Dear Sarah. You do not know your own worth—that is the problem. You must not allow the past to weigh on you so much.’ Judith kissed her again with another quick hug. ‘I have missed you.’

Only to become aware of the opening of the door into the morning room. And there, of course, stood Lord Joshua Faringdon, dark brows raised in total astonishment at seeing his sister warmly embracing his cool and icily reserved housekeeper. He looked from one to the other. They returned the look, green eyes quite defiant, blue ones with obvious discomfort, perhaps even shame. His mind worked furiously. He could think of nothing appropriate to the occasion to say.

‘Forgive me, ladies.’ He resorted to the banal. Executed a respectable bow, despite the discomfort. ‘It would appear that my presence is decidedly
de trop
. Judith—I shall be in the library—if you would care to see me before you leave.’ He turned his back, quietly closing the door behind him, leaving the two ladies to look at each other.

‘I shall have to tell him, Sarah.’

Sarah set her shoulders. It had to happen some time, she supposed. ‘As you will.’

And then I shall see if Lord Faringdon truly wishes to employ Sarah Baxendale under his roof!

‘Well?’

‘Well what, dear Sher?’ Judith cast herself down into a
chair. Her brother remained seated behind the massive Chippendale desk, if not in comfort, at least where the sharp agony in his knee and thigh was most bearable. He folded his arms on the polished surface and regarded his sister with an accusatory stare.

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Judith. I was aware, I believe, that you had recommended Mrs Russell for the post here. I certainly did not think to find you on such close terms—intimate even—with the lady. So tell me. Who is she?’

Could she bluff and keep Sarah’s cover? Judith had her doubts. She tried an ingenuous smile. ‘I have known Sarah Russell for some years.’

‘Come on, Ju! Perhaps you have. But you do not normally embrace your housekeeper with such obvious affection. I have wondered about her… Who is she?’

Judith sighed. But what did it matter? She would tell her brother the truth. If he did not wish to employ her—all well and good, even if Sarah would not see it in quite that light. It would rescue the lady from a situation that was, in her own eyes, unpalatable.

‘She is Sarah Russell. But her name was Baxendale. She is Thea’s sister.’ Judith awaited the explosion. She was not to be disappointed.

‘What?’

‘Theodora—who married Nicholas—when you were still in France.’

‘I know very well who Theodora is!’

‘Thea was brought up by Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux. But she and Sarah are sisters.’

‘So with such a family behind her, what in the devil’s name is she doing as my housekeeper?’

‘She needed a position and an income—against my advice, I must tell you.’

‘I see.’ He tapped the papers in front of him into a neat pile with short, sharp gestures. ‘Why did you not tell me of this?’

‘You would not have approved. Even less than I. Sarah
threatened to take a position elsewhere if not this one. She can be very determined. So I said nothing.’

He thought for a moment.

‘I thought she came from some genteel family who had perhaps born a child out of wedlock and been cast off by her family.’

‘No—nothing of that nature. She is indeed a widow. Her husband has been dead some five or six years now. A naval captain, killed in action.’

‘Wait a minute!’ Lord Faringdon fixed his sister with a fierce stare. ‘Baxendale. Baxendale, did you say? Edward Baxendale? Surely that was the name of the man who laid a claim against the Faringdon estates in the name of his sister—or his wife, as it turned out. I was in Paris so did not know the full gist of it, but I am aware that it rattled Lady Beatrice. She wrote to inform me of it, without one word of censure in the whole letter of my own errant behaviour, which was a miracle in itself. So—was that the name?’

‘Yes—yes, it was. Sarah is sister to Sir Edward Baxendale.’ Accepting the inevitability of it, she sat back in her chair and prepared to be communicative. Sarah would not approve, but her brother, as she knew, could be like a terrier with a rat. ‘It seems that I must tell you the whole story.’

‘I think you must.’ Joshua pushed to his feet, to limp across to the sideboard to pour two glasses of claret, handing one to Judith. ‘This may take some time.’

‘Yes. It is quite complicated.’ So she took a strengthening sip and told him. How Edward Baxendale had devised and executed a plot to present his own wife Octavia, masquerading as his sister, as the legitimate wife of Henry and Nicholas Faringdon’s eldest brother Thomas, who had died in a tragic accident. Thus Octavia would have a claim on the Faringdon estate and her child, Thomas’s son as she claimed, would be the Marquis of Burford. And how Sarah, under severe pressure from her brother, had allowed her son to be used in the charade as the son of Octavia and Thomas Faringdon and had herself taken
on the role of nursemaid to the child. Such detail of which Joshua had been unaware.

‘And so,’ Judith concluded, ‘Sarah turned evidence, told Henry and Nick of the deceit, confessed her own part in it and broke all connection with her brother. Henry and Eleanor gave her refuge and—well, the rest you know. She was most cruelly treated by her brother, although she will never admit to it. She had no money of her own and the captain’s pension was very small. Edward threatened to turn her and her child from the door unless she agreed to his scheme. So she did—until she could stand the lies and deceit no more. The Faringdons took her to their collective heart. But Sarah has never forgiven herself for allowing her child to be used in the impersonation or for inflicting so much pain on Eleanor. So there you have it. The secrets and shadows in Sarah’s life. She believes that she has a debt to pay to our family and must make restitution.’ She fixed her brother with an unusually steady gaze, as if he might disagree. ‘She had been a good friend to Thea and Nick in their tumultuous love affair. I should tell you, Sher, I love her dearly and will not have her hurt.’

Joshua said no more throughout the unfolding of events, but his lips were pressed in a firm line when his sister rose to leave some hour later. Judith knew that he was not pleased. But of what troubled him most about the situation, she was unsure.

‘What the devil do you mean by this, Mrs Russell?’

Sarah had been summoned to the library. She knew it must be. And now she stood before her employer and, although his face was devoid of temper, he was finding it difficult to hide his true feelings. Probably, Sarah decided, outrage at having a Baxendale foisted on him without his knowledge. His grey eyes were dark and stormy now as they swept over her. Fierce, commanding. True Faringdon eyes. There was little point in pretending to misunderstand his furious—although patently unanswerable—question, but she had no intention of showing
weakness or allowing herself to be bullied. Had she not promised herself that the days when she had bowed before a stronger will were all in the past?

‘Are you dissatisfied with my work, my lord?’ She folded her hands as Judith had seen them earlier, praying for composure. Her eyes, steady enough, met and held those of Lord Faringdon.

‘Of course I am not dissatisfied! How should I be?’

‘Then have I perhaps not fulfilled your wishes towards your daughter, sir?’

His lordship almost ground his teeth. He certainly dragged himself to his feet. He might have to lean heavily on his cane as he made his way across to the fireplace but he would be damned if he would conduct this interview sitting down. ‘Your work—or the quality of it, ma’am—is not the matter at issue here.’

‘Then I fail to understand your displeasure, my lord. If I have fulfilled the terms of my engagement as a member of your staff, I do not see the reason for your obvious disapproval.’ She marvelled at the steadiness of her voice, her ability to stand before him without flinching. She had often flinched when Edward had taken her to task. Had been reduced to tears on more than one explosive occasion. But that had been weakness. Now she was fighting for her independence. For the security and comfort of her son. Pride stiffened her backbone.

Lord Faringdon saw it, but was not to be deterred. ‘You are here as my housekeeper and my daughter’s governess under false pretences, madam.’

‘Hardly that, sir. My name is my own. I have made no attempt to hide my situation.’
Well, not very much.
‘I was appointed by your sister with your agreement. I have worked in your house for any number of weeks without difficulty or any cause for criticism.’

‘And Judith was in collusion with you, as you are very well aware!’